Teenage Wasteland
by LondonBelow
Summary: Maureen has moved in with her cousin. Roger has declared war on his father. April is fresh off the hospital bed. Mark just wants a friend. High school is, inevitably, hell. It helps not to be alone. [DISCONTINUED]
1. Chapter 1

"Don't cry/Don't raise your eyes/It's only teenage wasteland." --The Who, Baba O'Riley

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

"…up here, on your left."

Aunt Nina talks while she climbs the stairs, one hand on the banister. She's built like me, like Mom: dark, slight, small. Too small to hold her liquor, according to Mom, her and Aunt Nina and me, she warned. "Don't you get into drinking. You're a tiny girl, no more than a glass."

A glass of _what_, Mom?

Aunt Nina's house is nice, but it's not too nice. From the outside, you know her and her husband have more money than anyone really needs, in fact than any six families really need. I mean, imagine growing up in Kenya. Imagine looking at all those animals all the time, imagine herding your entire life, and never tasting a scrap. I mean, imagine living on Madagascar and not having any clue what vanilla tastes like.

Imagine being employed guarding rice. It's like the New Deal or something.

I can see inside half the rooms are fake, dressed up, pretending. But the pictures on the wall aren't Picasso, they were colored in crayon by my cousin when he was in kindergarten. The framed photographs aren't staged; they're sports snapshots, candids from weddings and family events.

These are good people who happen to have a shitload of money.

"I know you two used to go in bed together, but that was years ago, and with you two teenagers," Aunt Nina continues, "well, you know." She still wears her hair in a braid, which she glances around to look for my nod of agreement.

I'm busy looking at the stairs. They are carpeted over with something dark and patterned over with red lines in cross-hatch. "What?" I ask.

Aunt Nina says, "I was just saying how it's not appropriate now, the two of you sharing a bed."

"Oh. Yeah, of course."

She nods and smiles. The smile is stretched too thinly across her lips, and there are lines on her forehead. "We fixed up the spare bedroom," she says. "I don't know your tastes so well now. We made it a little dull so you can fix it up however you like. Your cousin, uh… you'll know what came from him."

I force a smile. "Great." My bedroom at home used to be littered with wrappers—candy bars and fast food, ice cream wrappers, whatever. Half of it came back up in a Technicolor splash into the toilet, or onto the tiles or the carpet, wherever I was. Just like Mom.

Then she does a strange thing: she reaches out and touches my cheek. "We're really glad you're here, honey."

_We're really glad your mom is getting her… polite cough… treatment._

"Thanks, Aunt Nina. Um… if I could just get to my room and start moving in?"

"Of course. You're just up here."

I haul my bag up the rest of the stairs and stalk to the door at the end of the hall. "This?" I ask, pointing to the door. She nods and I step in, give one last forced grin and shut the door.

The bag thumps to the floor at my feet. It's a carpeted floor. It's not exactly dull, it's just kind of bare. Obviously the first step will be to put my clothes in the closet, or it should be. I finger the bright bags on the desk: M&M's, peanut butter cups, gobstoppers. I chuckle.

The desk is nice, topped with papers and pens. It's thoughtful, it is, I _know_ that and I want to appreciate it… but I don't.

I flop down onto the bed. Next to the pillow is a stuffed unicorn, sparkling with pink yarn for a mane and tail. I laugh. "Nei-ei-eigh," I say. "Nei-ei-eigh, neigh. Your name can be Anne. Or Sarah. Or Brachel."

I pull aside the curtain. Down the hall, my cousin's room has a view of the street, I seem to recall. He has a great room, really. It's wasted on a boy. My room—I have no trouble calling it that, considering it my room. The view is the next house over. These houses, they are one hundred per cent boring. Someone needs to put up an adobe with a roof in red Spanish tiles and a blue front door.

I flop back onto my bed and close my eyes.

I don't know if it wakes me or it's just the first thing I hear, but there's a loud, rhythmic thudding in the corridor that sounds like a migraine headache. Its movement is halted just outside my door, and the thudding increases to the pace of medical-drama heart about to stop. Then it does stop, and the door is thrust open.

"Maureen!"

My cousin stands there, lanky, padded with muscle. "Good morrow," he declares. He spins a basketball around in his hands. After all these years, he is not what I expected. I expected braces, a quiet geek.

I sit up and push hair out of my face. Of course _he_, sweaty beast, is allowed short hair. Mine swings down to my ass when it's wet and tangles at the tiniest motion. "Ay, me, the day so young?"

"What sadness lengthens Maureen's hours?"

I open my mouth, then close it and shake my head. "I don't know the next part."

He steps into the room. "Not having," he says, plopping onto the bed beside me, "that which, having," pokes me in the chest, "makes them short." The ball bounces to the floor.

"Roger!" I throw my arms around him.

"Mo." He releases me. "You get my unicorn?" I nod. "Good. You wanna come shoot hoops? C'mon, I'll teach you how to throw like a man."

"Wouldn't you have to learn first?"

He laughs. "Come on. Get'cha outta this room." I grab the ball, hold it to my chest and dash out of the room. "Maureen!" Roger hurls himself after me. We race down the stairs. "Maureen, come back here! Get your hands off my ball!"

Out on the driveway, I hurl it at the basket. The ball doesn't go near the hoop at all. "Nice, Mo-Mo." Hearing the name reminds me that I haven't seen Roger since he was seven and I was six. "Come on. Like this, here." He retrieves the ball and holds it out to me. "Now put your hands… that's it. Lookit the basket. And shoot!"

It hits the backboard and bounces off. "Close! That was good, let's go again."

He runs me through a few more drills, then dribbles around me while I put up the pretense of stopping him. I'm shrieking with laughter. Roger gives narrations that amount to, "He shoots, he scores!" then takes victory laps.

He's half-breathless, and the sun is creeping towards the horizon when Aunt Nina calls, "Boys!"

"Aunt Nina!" I protest.

"Sorry, Maureen. Kids, come inside, there's some dinner for you—and don't tell me you aren't hungry, Roger Davis," she adds as he slinks into the house. "Down." She presses him into a seat. I sit opposite him.

More of Roger's finger-paintings are on the refrigerator, not taped up, just blue and red handprints crawling across the machine.

On the table are cartons of Chinese food. "All right!" Roger pulls a piece of sweet and sour chicken out with his fingers, dunks it in sauce and tosses it into his mouth, then exhales through parted lips. "Ha-a-a-at!"

"Roger! Not while Maureen's here," Aunt Nina scolds. "Please pretend you have some manners."

"Sorry, Mo." Roger gives me a sheepish grin with fringe in his eyes, and I know my cousin is never called on anything. He shakes food out of the carton, onto his plate. It's been so long since I actually sat down and ate like this, I watch him for cues. There aren't many.

"So, Maureen, I'm afraid it's not possible for you to join Roger at St. Francis's, they just don't have any spots at this time, so you'll be going to King. It's a fine school, as well; the bus picks up just at the corner but I can drive you I your first couple days, if you want. Or Roger can walk you."

"No, I can manage for myself."

"Roger will walk you to the stop tomorrow, just to be sure—"

"Ow!" Roger cries. His mother has kicked him under the table. "Okay, okay. Jeez. I'll walk Maureen, no problem, sheesh, pass the fried rice."

--

I can't sleep much that night. In a gated community, there's no noise. I can't hear a single car go down the street. The dogs have nothing to bark at. The cats are kept indoors. Heaven forbid they do anything as ugly as fuck.

Quietly as I can, I push back the covers and step out of bed. It's only September and still warm in the nights; I'm wearing nothing but a ratty old T-shirt and underwear for pajamas, and admittedly I'm a little cold. The shivers down my spine make me horny.

There's noise in the house. The sinks don't drip. The running refrigerator is too far away to be heard. But Roger is snoring. That's enough. The noise rises as I tiptoe closer, and I crack open his bedroom door. He's like a chainsaw.

His view _is_ of the streetfront, and he leaves his window open. Light from a streetlamp shows Roger on his back, sleeping with one hand between his legs. Tasteful, Davis. But what I care about is the snoring. As long as he keeps up that ruckus, I can sleep.

I tiptoe back to my room, slip under the covers and close my eyes. All too soon it's morning.

"Maureen!" Aunt Nina calls from somewhere in the house. "Maureen, wake up!"

I moan. It's too early… I'm too tired. Wouldn't it be easier to just stay in my bed? I snuggle deeper under the covers. Bed.

"Maureen!"

"No," I whine.

"Mau—"

"I'm up!" I jump out of bed. "Fine." My clothes are still in the bag by the bed.

I don't have a toothbrush, but in the bathroom I find one with my name inked on—that is, if my name was Mo-Mo. I rolled my eyes and squeeze on toothpaste. The bathroom is warm and damp from the shower; Roger left his towel on the floor, along with—"Eeew!" It's strange to squeal through toothpaste. Dirty underwear, yuck!

"Maureen, let's go!"

"Coming!"

I spit and rinse. Downstairs, Roger's waiting for me at the door, wearing navy slacks and an undershirt with a blouse, or whatever it's called for boys, tied around his waist. "Bodybuilding?" I ask. "Nice get-up."

"This is my uniform," he says. He picks up his backpack and slings it over one shoulder.

"Doubtful."

"Do you have a bag?"

"What do you think?"

"Hang on." He sets down his sandwich and sprints upstairs. He returns carrying a beat-up old backpack with patches that look like flags of other nations. "Here. My old one."

"Aw. Sweetie," I drawl sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay," he calls, "we're going! 'Bye, Mama!" She calls back to say good-bye and have a good day. Roger picks up his sandwich again and leads me out. Through a mouthful of what appears to be a bacon and egg sandwich with at least two sauces, tomato and lettuce—my stomach turns—Roger asks, "Do you have money for lunch?"

"Do I need it?"

He fishes around in his pockets. It's cold out: there's a slight fog waiting to burn off, and it's taking all of Roger's macho prowess not to shiver. He pulls out a handful of change. "Here."

"Don't you need it?"

"St. Francis figures lunches into tuition." He presses the coins into my hand.

"The price you pay for those dorky slacks."

Roger chuckles and bites into his sandwich. Ugh. _boys. are. gross._ "Who's that?" I ask. There's a boy leaning against the pole announcing that the bus stops here. He's not bad looking at all, nice skin, sort of a muddy olive color that's not quite anything, and curly dark hair. He has his nose in a book.

"Oh, that's Ezekiel. Ezekiel!" Roger calls. The boy looks up. "Yo."

Ezekiel squints at Roger, pushes his glasses up on his nose, and returns to his book. I laugh and slap Roger's chest. "Ooh, you're one cool cat, Roger Davis."

"Suck it, Mo." Roger kisses my cheek. "Take care. Oh, do you want me to wait with you?"

"No, it's fine." I smirk. "I'm sure if anything happens, Ezekiel will protect me."

He doesn't even move.

"'Bye." Roger takes off. I thump down on the bench. Great. I'm alone. I'm a-fucking-lone.

"Scarsdale sucks."

"Amen."

I look up at him, but he's still absorbed in his book.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Review? Please? Pretty please with flying monkeys on top?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.

_This is what death feels like:_

_it crunches._

The words spill out of my pen and onto the grainy blue lines of my notebook, marring the top of a fresh page. Around me, the students are passing notes. It's not that this actually bothers me, I mean, I'd do it, too, but it's a little different since none of them has even cracked _To Kill a Mockingbird_, and it's due in a week, and I've already finished it.

Of course the actuality is, I hate them for passing notes because I can't. I've got no one to pass notes to.

I turn to my right and am greeted with the sight of the back of a slick head, hair thick with gel and product so it shines like an otter but looks about as stiff as the crotch of your panties five hours _after_ you've seen a nice pair. What, at school there's no choice! You've got to just wear 'em until you're home. And all I see is that hair forming a stiff, shining helmet around a head, bobbing dangerously.

_and the jagged edges shine_

_off the ears of a young girl:_

I turn away and look to the left. He isn't just asleep: he's drooling. His hair needs a cut and a wash, his nose needs a wipe, and he's probably on drugs. My nose wrinkles. Even if I was on twice a high, I wouldn't associate with the likes.

_She says,_

_I missed you,_

_with three anchors in her hip pocket_

The bell rings.

As the stoners and shallow misses of the halls rise and gather their belongs, I sit at my desk sucking the end of a ballpoint pen, sucking and waiting for the next line, then I pen it down so that this page of my notebook reads:

_This is what death feels like:_

_it crunches._

_and the jagged edges shine_

_off the ears of a young girl:_

_She says,_

_I missed you,_

_with three anchors in her hip pocket_

_She crosses her fingers:_

_she'll go down with the ship._

Satisfied, I close the notebook and slide it into my bag, already rushing out the door. I have less than three minutes now to get to the Chemistry classroom, though who cares if I'm late?

Actually… I care. Today we have a lab, and chemistry is one of my few challenging classes. I stretch my legs and my kneesocks slide down towards my ankles. I manage to slide into my seat just as the bell is ringing.

Truth is, I meant to drop Chemistry. I don't like sciences, I'm not good at sciences. I could easily have taken Biology and Marine Biology and been through here, but for something that happened two weeks ago.

"All right." It hadn't been three weeks, but already the comedy had worn away from Mr. Garbanzo's name. He stood and explained to us what we'll be doing, and covered safety procedures, as always. "…and people, wear your goggles. If you have glasses, they'll fit over your glasses. All right. Begin."

One thing he did not cover was that hydrochloric acid should not be washed off. With a spill on flesh, what one should do, we later learned, is dab off the acid.

About fifteen minutes into class, an older boy—a junior, I later learned—stood up from his work station and walked to the sink in the back of the classroom. He said nothing, just walked back, holding his arm carefully in front of him, and when he reached the sink he turned on the flow and placed his arm very, very carefully under it.

The reason the acid should be dabbed off is that exposing it to water releases heat and causes chemical burns.

"Davis, what are you doing?" Mr. Garbanzo asked after nearly half a minute, when the boy remained at the sink.

I had chosen the station just next to the sink, myself, so I glanced over my shoulder and got a good look at him. The boy's face had gone pale and started to sweat, but his arm where the tap spewed up water was purplish.

"Go back to your lab station and—oh my God!" Garbanzo recoiled at the sight. He turned off the faucet and pressed paper towels to the boy's arm. The student himself made a small noise and his eyes rolled back, but he gripped the sink and managed not to fall.

That was on Friday. He was gone the remainder of the day; I know because I missed seeing him during passing period between fifth and sixth. I was still thinking about him as I wandered home from the bus stop.

It was the weekend officially, so after I had put out a tin of food for the cat I grabbed a bottle of Coke for myself. Mom's rule was '_no caffeine during the week_', but it was the weekend now. I leaned against the counter and thought about the look on the boy's face, the hard way his eyes shut down against the pain.

In my room, I stretched out on the bed and watched the curtains, white with pink polka dots, flutter in the breeze. There was such a strength in that expression, the way he stared at the discolored skin and did not cry out nor ask for help. Like he could endure anything, and he knew it.

"April?"

I glanced at the clock. 4:35, I had been home for only half an hour, and Mom wasn't due in for another hour yet, but she was home, yodeling out for me.

"April!"

I pushed up off my bed and wandered down the hall. "Yeah?"

"Oh. There you are."

"What are you doing home?" I asked. She wasn't due for an hour!

"You didn't call," she said. "I was worried."

That night, at dinner, Dad pointed his fork at me and said, "We need to be able to rely on you, April. It's not asking too much for you to call Mom when you come home from school."

"I forgot!" I protested.

"Well thanks to your forgetting, your mom missed an hour of work. And that money's coming out of your allowance, miss!"

I kept my mouth shut, thinking of the hard look in that boy's eyes.

Today, it's easy to spot him as I flit into class. I lean down and pull up my kneesocks. I'm two seats and one row behind him in lecture, and I pop open a pen and flip to a fresh page of notes, knowing I won't write down a thing. I rarely do.

Maybe that's why I'm barely swinging a C.

Maybe if I sat in front of him, or farther back, somewhere that allowed me to focus on the class itself instead of Roger Davis's curls and those slight, curved shoulders…

The bell rings before I know class has begun, students are rising and gathering packs… I do, too, slinging my bag onto my shoulder. Then I bow my head and watch my feet carry me to the grassy area listed on all the school maps as "senior court", where I drop the bag again and settle against the wall.

Roger Davis sits on the grass with a book propped open and a little plastic baggie of Cheerios.

I wonder what it's like to be him. What's it like to be so confident? Not to care what anyone thinks? Not to feel pain?

What's it like to masturbate with a penis?

"Hey."

While I'm wondering what Roger Davis's bedroom looks like, and betting that his parents never look at him like they wish he wasn't born, a group of junior boys have come up beside me.

"Uh… my friend here was wondering, how do you like… _know_ you don't like it?"

I shake my head. "Like what?"

"Dick."

I sigh, grab my bag and stand. Before I can leave, one of the guys grabs my arm. "Hey," he says, "we're just askin', be polite."

"Leave me alone." I try to pull away, but he won't let me.

"It's just a question."

"Let go—"

"Hey." That's a new voice, not one of the boys, but it goes unnoticed.

"Can't you just tell me—"

"Hey!" This comes louder, with a shove. "Fuck off." And Roger Davis pushes the boy so hard he falls, taking me with him.

My arm hits the wall, and wouldn't I just love someone to ask if I'm all right, but he's a bit busy scaring off the remaining goons. Once they've given up and gone, he turns back to me and squats down. "Hey," he says, gently. "You okay?"

And I say, "Yeah… I'm fine."

"Let me see your arm." He dips paper napkins into his water bottle and drags them across my arm. "Easy," he says. "Hold still. This'll just take a second." When he's stopped talking, my arm is clean. The skin is unbroken.

Roger Davis rocks back on his heels and gives me a grin. "You're all right," he declares. He offers his hand. "I'm Roger."

I shake. "April."

Roger laughs. "I know," he says.

To be continued!

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	3. Ezekiel

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

I haven't been home a half an hour when the call comes:

"Honey, could you watch the twins?"

I sigh. _No, I canNOT watch my sisters, Mom, as I am upstairs, I am cross-legged on my bed behind my secondhand typewriter with a fresh new sheet of paper all ready for a fresh new story which, just like all my others, will turn into nothing but pages and pages of dialogue and probably overtake my entire being, anyway, and keep me from focusing in my classes, which doesn't matter, Mom, because I'm still at Thomas King when I'm blatantly qualified to go to St. Francis._

"E_ze_kiel—"

"Coming!"

I flip off my bed and slam the door on my way out. My feet thud down the stairs; three steps from the bottom my foot latches behind my ankle and I barely catch myself on the banister.

Mom is rushing around the kitchen, coaxing, "In your mouth, honey, not your hair," and balancing Adah on her hip. Davida's in the high chair, not feeding herself. The twins are my youngest siblings. "Ezekiel." Mom hands me Adah.

"Ugh." She's heavy. She's also blonde, like our dad. She's blond and light-skinned, practically a photonegative of Davida, who looks like me.

"Ezekiel's gonna drop her!"

That's my sister Jesse, who I hate more than anything in the world, not just for being a spoiled princess at the proud age of seven and a half, but because she's called Jesse. In the thick of all our good Hebrew names, how did she get a normal, albeit somewhat masculine, name, and I'm Ezekiel?

"I'm _not_!"

I sit down at the table, anyway, with Adah in my lap. I wouldn't _want_ to drop her. Mom'd have a fit.

Mom tells me, "I'm taking Jesse and Micah—" my only brother, aged ten "—to Janey's party." How do my siblings have a friend named Janey? I don't have a friend, full stop. "Keziah can look after herself."

Keziah. G-d save us, 13-year-old Kaitlin Keziah Cohen, the alliterated, the first daughter, the experiment who by three was using her old Hebrew name and damned the rest of us.

"I'll be back in half an hour, _at most_. Just keep your sisters out of trouble."

"Can't Keziah do it?" I whine. She glares at me. "Okay, Mom."

"Thank you, Ezekiel."

The moment she's gone, carrying Jesse and hauling Micah by the hand, Adah swivels to face me and says, "_Don't_ hold me."

-

Mom comes home, and I'm out the door before she can say hello.

Once I stumble out onto the lawn, once I've blinked away the sunshine though it's still so bright there's nothing worth seeing (and there wouldn't be, anyway), I realize that I have nowhere to go. Mom calls after me to stay within the community… right.

I guess the funny thing is, I was not born in a gated community. The hospital is outside the gates, and they kept me a while… Once I was released, Mom and Dad brought me here, into the cage. That's where I grew up, inside the cage, and there's something big and scary outside of it.

I wish I knew what that was, most intimately.

It's just a usual Friday afternoon in suburbia. Sprinklers account for most of the activity. The wind moves a few flowers. I watch, thinking about Keziah who can sit and watch this for hours and not get bored, and I wonder _how_. She compares it to ballet.

I compare it to math class.

"Aah!"

A high-pitched shriek from down the road draws my attention: Roger, who I barely remember from our Bar Mitzvah classes, is playing basketball with that girl. She goes to King, too, we have the same bus stop, but I don't know her name.

I take a step towards them. My sneaker falls on the sidewalk, just outside the polished square of our lawn. I don't really know how to play basketball. I mean, you bounce it and throw it, right? They tried to teach us in P.E. once. My shoes came untied; I tripped, skinning both my knees and elbows.

"Roger!"

The girl, she's loud. So is he, laughing, both of them, and teasing, and I wonder… _maybe they don't want me to join?_ He's behind her now, guiding her hands, his body is practically plastered against hers as he guides the shot. What if she's his _girlfriend_?!

I stop. I shouldn't—

"Hey Ezekiel!"

Um. Is _Roger Davis_ actually calling me? Roger Davis, dark blond curls and sparkling green eyes and that perfect, perfect smile, actually _wants my attention_?

Like he doesn't have it in bed every night.

With him? I wish.

"Come on!" he calls, motioning me over.

_And suck you off?_

My libido has been beyond overactive lately. I do what I can. I mean, I masturbate practically every night, sometimes up to three times in bed alone, plus the shower, and at school or before school if I need it… and still I'm having these dreams, and these fantasies.

Anyway, I jog down the street, noticing that Roger's undershirt is very loose and very sweaty. His hair is plastered down with sweat.

When I'm within range, he tosses me the ball and says, "You wanna play?"

"Um… I'm not that good," I admit.

"Oh, that's okay," Roger assures me. "I was just teaching Maureen—this is Maureen, by the way, my cousin. Maureen, Ezekiel; Zekey, Maureen."

My face flushes when he calls me that. I shake her hand and say, "But everyone mostly calls me Mark." It's a lie.

"They do?" Roger asks.

_Nope_.

"Yeah. It's my middle name."

Maureen says, "Hey, Mark."

"Okay." Roger says, "So we're just fooling around. You wanna take a shot, we'll see what you can do?"

I shoot. The ball goes way over the basket and thuds onto the roof, rolls down and bounces up high. I jump to catch it, but miss. My face burns.

Roger catches the ball. "Okay, well here, I'll teach you how to shoot a set shot, okay? So stand here…" He guides me back, and I don't protest. "Take the ball. No, here, take it. Hold it out above your head—put your left hand more like that." Roger moves my left hand. "That's good." And I can only imagine where I wish he had guided my hand, and when I wish he had said it felt good, but then I'm starting to move so I stop thinking about that. "Bend your knees a little. Now use this hand for power—shoot."

I jump up and hurl the ball. It goes wide, and I blush again, though the shot was much better.

"Okay." Roger retrieves the ball. "Well, that's a lot better. Umm… you don't want to jump on a set shot, but other than that…"

We play on, until the light begins to fade. The streetlights come on. "I think I'll sit out a while," I say.

"Me, too."

Roger's face falls. He would probably stay out here shooting baskets until he passed out from exhaustion, but he reads on both our faces that it's enough and he nods. "Okay." We head inside, into the kitchen; Roger tossed the ball into a smaller bin beside the rubbish bin, this one filled with sports paraphernalia, mostly balls though I notice a hockey stick and a pair of rollerblades.

"Mark, you wanna stay for dinner?" Roger asks. He's soaked with sweat.

"Oh. Um, yeah, I'd love to, if—"

"Of course. Call your mom, make sure that's okay."

"Yeah."

Of course it's okay. Mom is more than utterly thrilled—her baby made a friend! Oh she is just _so proud_… I blush, hoping Roger and Maureen can't hear this.

Maureen is sitting on the counter. When I hang up, Roger asks, "So, Mom left us some money for take-out but I'd rather not… Mark, you vegetarian?"

"No."

"Swell." Swell! He says _swell!_ "Cheeseburgers? … oh, no, you're kosher, aren't you, Mark?"

I lie again: "Nope."

"Cheeseburgers?"

I grin. "Sure, I love cheeseburgers."

"Great."

I've never seen anyone actually make burgers before—my mother doesn't make them, and even if she did, I would hardly be interested enough to stay in the kitchen and watch. But Roger Davis twists his sweaty basketball fingers into a big pat of reddish brown meat that looks like a worm orgy. He pries it off into three about equal sections and thumps around each one in turn, the same way he thumped around that basketball, but when he's through each is a fairly flat round.

Roger frowns.

"Look, it's meant for three, they're a bit small, okay?"

I nod, and Maureen and I assure him that it's no problem. Roger grabs a frozen packet of chips and spreads them out to heat on a baking tray and tosses them into the oven.

"So you just moved here?" I ask Maureen, since Roger's busy.

She nods. "I'm staying for… um… probably at least the semester."

"Do you like King?"

"Nope," she admits.

I chuckle. "Me, neither."

"Why aren't you at St. Francis's?" Roger asks me.

"Oh. Well my parents… they're liberals. They're not socialists or anything," I add quickly, in case there's any question. A lot of these people, people in communities like this, they're conservatives. They like the system that let them get way, way ahead. "Anyway, they send us all to public school."

"Oh, yeah. Mark's got, like, what, five siblings?" Roger begins telling Maureen, then he turns to ask me.

I nod. "Yeah."

I've never seen anyone cook like Roger does before. He tossed bacon into a pan and smooshes it flat with a spatula and tosses the burgers into another pan and flips them with the same spatula, then returns it to the bacon until it's time to flip the burgers again. With his free hand he mixes a handful mushrooms around in a pan of butter.

He has three pans working, and doesn't seem stressed at all.

"Mark." Roger nudges me. "Hold this."

I take the spatula for the half-minute it takes for Roger to set three burger buns in the oven, then he's back setting slices of cheese on the burgers. The buns come out and the mushrooms are rolled off onto a plate along with—when the heck did he slice up those vegetables?

But he did.

Roger sets up a make-your-own-burger buffet on the counter, with a bowl of fries at the end, then helps himself and sits down at the table. He's wrapped some paper around his burger to minimize dribbling.

_Woah._

I break two Kosher laws with one bite of my bacon cheeseburger, and I'm not sorry.

I decide I like being Mark.

To be continued!

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	4. Roller Hockey

WARNING: The teenagers make racist jokes. If you're easily offended, steer clear.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. The Frito Bandito belongs to Lays company.

"…straight down the center and yes! He scores!"

The wheels whirl in my rollerblades and click against the street, and the puck sails off my hockey stick to slam into the chalk square on the garage door. "Woo!" I turn to Maureen, she gives me a lazy grin.

"Do you do anything that doesn't involve sports?" she asks.

I didn't _make_ Maureen come out, whatever she tells you. I had been blading a good forty-five minutes, maybe even an hour when she lolled out and sat on the sidewalk with a huge pair of sunglasses on, like she might have a hangover. Only Maureen could manage that without touching a drop of alcohol.

"You wanna play?" I asked.

"Don't be such a retard, Davis."

"My old skates'd probably fit."

"_If_ I knew how to skate," she returned, and that was that.

Now she lowers her shades to give me a look of disbelief and says, "I _cannot_ believe you actually have time _set aside_ for that."

I stick out my tongue. "Not what I meant, Maureen." I retrieve the puck and take it out, roll down the street, thinking about last night. We had a good time after the cheeseburgers, all sprawled out in the living room to watch television since it didn't matter what was on.

"Get off," Maureen said, and stretched fully on the couch, leaving Eze—Mark and I to either watch from a chair, the right distance for a WI meeting but not for hanging out, or crash on the floor. I took the floor. Mark sat beside me.

"Oh, shit, is that…" He reached forward to grab something off the table.

"Hey, what d'you think, Mo?" I asked, nodding at Mark's rear. "Who says Jews don't got back?"

Maureen shook her head. "Who… talks that way, and isn't you?" she asked.

Mark thumped back down, playing with an old toy of mine. "The Frito Bandito, all right," he said, spinning the pencil. "I am ze Freeto Bandeeto."

"Frito Bandito's Mexican, you idiot, not French."

"How do you still have this?" Mark marveled. "I haven't seen a Frito Bandito since I was like six years old." He began to sing, "Ay, yii, yii, yii, I am dee Frito Bandito…"

I laughed and pulled Mark into a half-headlock, half-hug. "Who remembers that?" I asked. "That's fantastic."

"I didn't know Cohen was a Mexican name," Maureen said.

"Oh. I get it. Um, I'm Sephardic, actually, thanks," Mark told her. "I didn't realize Mo-Mo was a name for a Jew." He must have heard me say that… _Whoops._ "Other than a JAP," Mark added.

"Oh!" I applauded him. "You bitch!" Mark was already leaning against me, so I reached across his chest for a high-five. "Though it's not uncommon for Moses."

"Yeah but who do you know called _Moses_?" Mark asked.

I popped him one hard on the shoulder. "For one, my dad."

"Yo! Davis!" Maureen snaps her fingers. I pause and look at her. "So? _Do_ you ever do anything that doesn't involve sports?"

"Uh… not Tuesdays and Thursdays between four and seven." Not that it's either of those things _now_; it's Saturday. It is a fantastic Saturday, with roller hockey at half-past nine o'clock, before the sun is completely awake.

"EW!" Maureen hurls a pinecone at me; I slap it away with my hockey stick. "You set aside _time_ for that?"

I grin. "Not _that_! I do _that_ in the shower. Or in bed. Or when I get home from school. Or—"

She holds up her hands and shakes her head. "Okay! I give! I don't wanna know! Go take skate to the corner."

I raced down; it was cold out, though the sun was out and it was only August. I warmed up as I shifted my weight from foot to foot. Wind rushed past me. I reached the end of the street, spun around to head back home, then paused.

"Roger!" Mark stood on the front lawn, waving at me. "Hey!"

"Yo, Zekey!" I skated down to his house and skidded to a halt. "What's up?"

"Not much…"

"You wanna play some roller hockey?"

Mark smiles and shakes his head apologetically. He's got a nice smile. "I don't know how to skate," he admits.

"Oh, well, you want to learn? I'll get my old skates, I can teach you. It's more fun than basketball!"

Mark chuckles. "Okay," he says. Mark walks back to my house, and I skate. Maureen has gone inside by now; I crash through to the kitchen and grab my old skates. "They should fit you. Here, sit down." Mark sits. I kneel down and strap on the roller blades.

"All right, Mark. Let's roll."

I love me.

To be continued!

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